Sunday, May 6, 2012

Queen Victoria on the Toronto Maple Leafs

I rather like croquette. My husband Albert and I, when we weren’t engaged in fornication  and cheering the nation on in its heroic effort to civilize the lazy and indifferent wog, used to play it often on the green lawns of Balmoral. It was jolly good fun. Croquette is the ideal game.  It embodies the triune ideal of sport; skill, fair play and determination.

We play a great deal of croquette in Heaven. The Presbyterians seem to like it a lot, although they have their own lawns, as do the Episcopalians. We Anglicans, as is to be expected, are the elite of the croquette pitch. There are certainly no head shots. Almost all of the participants are in possession of their teeth. There is no foul body odour and certainly no foul language. Rude gestures are prohibited. There is no spitting or violent evacuation of the nasal cavity. Winners and losers alike share the special joy of eager combatants who understand that to compete as gentlemen and ladies is the highest reward that sport has to offer.

I rather think we need to step back. This obsession with the Toronto Maple Leafs seems rather to verge on a grammatical absurdity. We are in favour of renaming the team the Toronto Maple Leaves.

Having said that, viewed even from a great distance (Heaven is several light years away) Canada is a rather large country. Surely there is plenty of room for more croquette. Surely in these vast wastelands Canadians, though a joyless and dull race, can find a sunny level field and there plant a pleasant green lawn and engage happily in sport as sport was meant to be played. Afterwards perhaps you can repair to a quiet and peaceful chapel and give thanks to God you were not born Irish.

As you well know the Irish are a despicable race. The highways and byways of Hell are simply thronging with the filthy sods. The Irish play something called hurling. It resembles ice hockey except that it is played on a cow pasture amongst the steaming turds. I can assure you it is a thoroughly debased sport suitable only for the congenitally stupid and insane. That pretty much sums up the Irish.

Rule the Maple Leafs

(Sung to the tune of Rule Britannia)

O Rule the Maple Leafs
O rule the shimmering rink
Alas the Maple Leafs are lousy
O Man oh man they really stink

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